


Take Me Away

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alive Cole Anderson, Amanda is not a nice lady, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), Beauty and the Beast Elements, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Connor Needs A Hug, Easter Eggs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Evil Queen Amanda, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Imprisonment, M/M, Physical Abuse, Praise Kink, Protective Hank Anderson, Soft Hank Anderson, Violence, recovering from abuse, tell that boy he’s good, things get dark before they get better, torn Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Please! You can’t. You don’t understand!” He makes it halfway to the dais before a guard’s sword is at his neck.“You must be his father,” the queen’s cold, dark eyes take in his features, reading the resemblance of father and son like a map.An idea—one last fleeting hope—leaps to his lips, “He isn’t man-grown. He’s still a child by our laws.” His words shake with his terror for his son and he waits.“Laws have been broken,” the queen says without a hint of consideration. “I cannot afford to appear weak. I am not moved by your blubbering.”It was only then that Hank realized he was crying. Not heavily, but a tear trickles into the corner of his mouth like salt on a wound.“Take me instead,” he falls to his knees partly to beg but mostly because they can’t bear his weight any longer.--A vaguely Beauty and the Beast AU. Connor may be a beast, but there are bigger monsters lurking in the shadows.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 30
Kudos: 237





	Take Me Away

Hank’s heart thuds a steady, terrified tattoo in his chest as he watches the queen regarding his son. Amanda Stern wasn’t known for her leniency.

“The boy was caught trespassing on our lands. Do you deny it?” She addresses the question to Cole and he blanches.

“I…I didn’t know. I was collecting mushrooms in the woods. There weren’t any signs.” Hank has to resist the urge to shut his eyes against the scene before him. Cole, kneeling with a sword to his neck all because of a handful of _mushrooms_. How many times had he told Cole not to wander too far? How many times had he warned him about the cruelty of the woman who ruled their lands?

“The sentence for petty trespassing is a year in the dungeons. For thievery, it adds another four.” She turns her impassive gaze from Cole to face her guards, gesturing for them to take him away. Hank’s insides turn to lead. Five years in a damp cell. Cole wouldn’t make it. His lungs weren’t well. He needed fresh air, to be able to retreat into the mountains during the height of summer to escape the humidity. It was a death sentence.

“ _Please!_ You can’t. You don’t understand!” He makes it halfway to the dais before a guard’s sword is at his neck.

“You must be his father,” the queen’s cold, dark eyes take in his features, reading the resemblance of father and son like a map.

An idea—one last fleeting hope—leaps to his lips, “He isn’t man-grown. He’s still a child by our laws.” His words shake with his terror for his son and he waits.

“Laws have been broken,” the queen says without a hint of consideration. “I cannot afford to appear weak. I am not moved by your blubbering.”

It was only then that Hank realized he was crying. Not heavily, but a tear trickles into the corner of his mouth like salt on a wound.

“Take me instead,” he falls to his knees partly to beg but mostly because they can’t bear his weight any longer. He can’t lose his son. He’s all he has left in this world. “He’s my responsibility. The blame lies with me.”

He meets Cole’s panicked gaze and the boy struggles to pull free from the guard’s grip on his bicep. Only in his middling teen years, he’s no match for the thickly muscled man holding him, waiting for the queen to make her choice.

“Five years of service,” she muses, looking Hank over. “What is it you do in the town?”

Hank swallows down his fear and casts his eyes down in deference, “I am one of the blacksmiths, milady.” He can hear her hum with interest and he holds his breath.

“How will the town prosper without you for such a time?” He hadn’t been expecting the question and he pivots fast and hard.

“I’m one of two, milady. I’ve been training my son since he could walk. He can help fill the orders.” _Please, please, please_. He chants it over and over in his mind.

The queen nods once, decisively, “Very well. You can take his place. I imagine your skills will prove valuable while you wait out your sentence. No sense in wasting talent.” The instant the guards release him, Cole rushes Hank and crumples against him in a miserable heap.

“Papa. Papa, I’m so sorry.” Hank has no idea how long they have before he’s taken…wherever it is the queen intends for him to stay. It didn’t sound like the dungeons, but he couldn’t be sure. He tries not to think about it. He tries to remember everything about Cole’s face instead.

“It’s ok,” he whispers over his head but Cole shakes his head violently, his whole body trembling. “You need to be brave. I’ll be fine. You need to work hard and keep up with Jeffrey. He’ll help you at the forge as best he can. Remember the seasons. Stay safe.”

A cold, metal-coated hand encircles Cole’s wrist, yanking him from Hank’s arms. The guard drags him toward the door, sobbing and screaming _Papa!_

Hank calls out, “I love you,” but he’s not certain Cole heard. The door slams with finality and an indescribable fatigue washes over him.

“On your feet,” the queen’s sharp voice hits his ears like a slap and he obeys. “You will serve the prince during your time here. He will show you to your room. Do as he tells you and perhaps you’ll get to see your son again one day.” She turns to a pale man beside her, gesturing at Hank as if he’s a gift, “You can take it from here, Connor.”

For the first time, he takes note of the man seated by her side. He’s freckled and his features are softer than his mothers. Where she is dark, his skin is like milk. He’s heard stories about the pair—a mother and son nightmare in recent years. Both cold and brutal, Hank tries not to think what on earth the slight prince could need.

Hank is ready to crack the prince’s head against a wall within the hour, “Is that really how peasants do the wash?” He’d been following Hank around, ordering him to perform inane tasks. He critiques every action Hank takes, from how he sits to how he manipulates the wringing device to rid the clothes of water.

“Do you even know how to wash your clothes, little prince? Or are your hands too soft to do the job properly.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, as if they bypassed his brain entirely.

Connor goes rigid, rage burning behind dark, intense eyes, “Watch your tongue lest you should lose it. You certainly don’t need it to obey me.”

Hank has to bite the threatened fleshy organ to lock a retort in his throat. It costs him something, a fragment of his pride no doubt, to see Connor’s eyes gleam in triumph. Still, better that than lose his tongue.

It carries on this way for weeks and Hank’s dislike of the spoiled prince grows. He’s smart, that much Hank can see, but it’s wasted on such a pampered brat. Months bleed into each other, with only the changing seasons to offer Hank any indication of how much time has truly passed. Connor had locked Hank in his windowless room for several days on end and he’d lost track of time. He’d received food and water but little else.

When Connor finally let him out, though, something seemed off about him. Aching for sunlight as he was, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle discoloration across one of Connor’s cheeks. He takes less joy in terrorizing Hank and his cruelty ebbs into something half-hearted.

He still makes Hank perform unpleasant chores, but he doesn’t offer any commentary. He retreats to his own quarters in the castle more often as well, forbidding Hank to follow him.

“Go ask mother if she needs something done. I’m tired of looking at your face.” Connor dismisses him outright and Hank takes his time wandering the castle. He’s certain Connor can have him beaten for disobeying a direct order, but he’s in no hurry to seek out the queen. He’d done his best to avoid her, which wasn’t particularly hard. She and Connor had laid claim to opposite ends of the castle and only met for meals or holding court.

Hank had never declared himself a genius, but anyone could see there was a rift between the queen and her heir apparent. She rarely regarded him at all and Connor could barely tolerate her presence. He was always at his most vile anytime he had to spend an extended amount of time with her.

Hank had told himself it wasn’t his problem except that it was. Connor made his existence a nightmare anytime he had private meetings with the queen. He was at a loss for what to do about it, as he had no idea what went on behind her closed office doors.

In fact, Hank noted with mild interest, Connor had had him locked away following his last visit with her. He’d sent someone in his stead to hustle Hank into his simple room without any explanation. Connor evidently had something to hide. Something he was ashamed of that he didn’t want Hank to see.

Interesting.

It was just a theory, of course, but Hank had some skill when it came to ferreting out the truth.

It takes the better part of half an hour before Hank admits to himself that he’s lost. He’d rarely had reason to explore his surroundings, but he’s decently sure he’s making his way back to Connor’s area of the castle. The furnishings are different than the queen’s preferred austere iron. Connor likes soft things. Comfortable things. The chairs and benches here have plush tops made of velvet in deep blues. The color would complement Connor’s features well. Hank snorts; that was likely the intent. It would appeal to Connor’s vanity.

Connor spent more time than anyone Hank knew checking his reflection. He was always fussing with his hair or rearranging his cloak. Hank had once told him, “You don’t look any different than you did ten minutes ago.” It had earned him a sharp glare, but Connor had blushed. Hank didn’t think he was capable of shame until the soft pink dusted his cheeks.

The only thing that seems out of place is a large canvas draped in a grey gauzy fabric. He can see the shreds of a portrait beneath it. He lifts the veil for a closer look. It seems odd to keep it when it’s been destroyed to this extent. He lifts the largest of the torn edges and he’s startled to see Connor’s face looking back at him.

Not quite Connor, though. This painting has grey eyes. Cold and lifeless as the torn flesh of the canvas.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Connor’s voice cracks like thunder and Hank whirls to find him breathing hard with clenched fists. His face is one of rage and agony. Hank recognizes the look, feels it in his soul. Anyone who’s experienced loss knows the mask of grief well. Hank never thought he and Connor would have something in common.

“ _Get out!_ ” Connor screams it at him, reaching into a nearby cabinet to hurl the first thing he can get his hands on in Hank’s direction. A teacup hits him uselessly in the chest before rebounding to the floor. It hits the carpet with a dull crack and a small chip falls loose. He bends to retrieve it on instinct, so used to cleaning up Connor’s messes.

Connor screams for him to leave once more and his voice strains under the weight of it. It’s not an order or a request. He’s begging and it shakes Hank to his core. Whatever is going on in this castle, something is deeply wrong.

With long strides, he leaves Connor alone with the haunting portrait. His tear-stained face burns into Hank’s brain. He pauses to look over his shoulder and he sees Connor gripping the edges of the gilded frame, resting his head against the ruined painting.

He retreats to the only room he can call his own in the castle. It only contains a bed, a small table, and a chamber pot he has to empty himself, but at least there are no crying princes or broken portraits here. He cradles the cup for a moment before resting it on the circular surface of the tabletop.

He’s fairly certain death is coming for him. There’s no way Connor will allow his trespassing to go unpunished. He’s probably more upset that Hank had seen him in such a state more so than anything else. Sleep eludes him and he twitches at every noise outside his door. No one comes. Hank waits as long as he dares before exiting his room. He runs into Connor almost immediately. His eyes are puffy, but he gives no indication that anything transpired between them the night before.

“Mother wishes to see me,” he says flatly and Hank is at a loss for how to reply. Connor always went alone to those engagements so Hank waits. Connor hesitates. It’s a small, almost imperceptible thing, but Hank sees the fleeting moment—the chink in Connor’s armor. Hank had seen something he was never meant to see. Instead of pushing him away, Connor lets him in even if Hank has no idea what he’s about to walk into.

“I want you to come with me. Clean the throne while we talk. She’ll ignore you.” Offering no further explanation, Connor turns on his heel and walks away with the confidence of a man who knows he will be obeyed without question.

As Connor predicted, the queen pays Hank no more attention than she does the tapestries on the wall.

Her dark gaze is only for her son, “You continue to disappoint me, Connor. After all your tutoring, you’re no closer to being ready to rule. I hadn’t realized I should invest in more than one spare.” Connor flinches and Hank almost forgets to keep cleaning. A spare?

“I told you, we could look for Niles. He wasn’t taken, mother. He _lef_ —” The queen’s hand strikes fast and harsh. The blow lands hard across Connor’s cheek but he doesn’t make a sound. He keeps his eyes cast at her feet.

“I wouldn’t give my crown to that filth even if he came crawling back on bloody stumps. He betrayed the Stern line the moment he—” she abruptly cuts herself off as if too disgusted to speak of whatever crime this Niles committed. Hank hadn’t been aware there was more than one prince. No one in town did as far as he knew. How had she kept Connor hidden?

“Let me see your face,” her voice is hard and Hank can’t help but watch as Connor lifts his eyes to meet hers. She strikes him again and this time it takes him to his knees. His lips shine with blood and Hank realizes with mounting horror that Connor is as much a prisoner here as he is.

“You’re weak,” she says harshly, grabbing him by the jaw. “I can read your emotions as clearly as if you wrote them on your face. School yourself. Stop giving in to the impulses that ruined your brother.” All expression seems to drain from Connor’s face as he tries to make himself into what she wants him to be. A cold, ruthless machine, capable of anything.

She stares at him for a moment before sighing heavily, “It’s a start, anyway. We’ll get you there one way or another.” Hank can’t quite contain his horrified recoil. This is nothing new to Connor. This is his life. His own personal nightmare that he can never awake from. His shoulders sag, but his face betrays nothing. He’s donned the mask she’s taught him to wear through brutality.

“I’m traveling soon,” she keeps her cold gaze on Connor’s face. Blood paints his lips like a mummer in a play. It’s grotesque and Hank wants nothing but to flee the room and avoid the queen for the remainder of his time here. How many times had he thought Connor a monster when the true horror sat on the throne?

“I’m leaving you in charge while I’m gone. Try not to disappoint me. You know I don’t tolerate failures.” Connor nods to her once and she holds out the back of her hand. Hank’s fingers tense into the rag as he drags it over the arm of the throne for the thousandth time, blindly maintaining the illusion that he’s cleaning. Connor’s lips press to it and a dark smear glistens on her skin as the blood transfers from his mouth to her hand.

“You have so much potential, Connor. We just have to break you of this weakness.” She pats his head as if he’s an animal in need of training. “We’ll rid you of this softness.” She turns without another word. She doesn’t see Connor shiver.

Connor doesn’t move and the spell of the horror he’d just witnessed freezes Hank in place. Connor has everything he could want. He’s spoiled beyond measure and Hank dislikes him down to his gilded shoes. But he can’t quite hate him anymore. Not after this. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever like the man, he treats him with too much contempt for that, but he understands him a little better. Doubt creeps up his skull as Hank wonders how much of Connor’s ill behavior toward him was a front to appease his cruel mother.

Connor doesn’t talk to him about what happened. Hank can’t bring himself to ask why Connor wanted him to witness it. It’s not that Hank is unsympathetic, but he’s not in any position to do anything about it. He watches in silence as Connor pulls a chair to his mirror and drags open a vanity drawer. He applies some kind of cream to his face and the worst of the redness vanishes.

He meets Hank’s gaze in the mirror as if looking at Hank’s reflection is the most he can manage, “I’m not vain.” He says it flatly and his head falls into his hands. Realization explodes like a firework in Hank’s chest. _This_ is why Connor is always looking in the mirror. _This_ is what Connor has been trying to hide. He doesn’t want anyone to know what his mother is doing to him.

So why did he bring Hank?

“I was never meant to be her heir. I never understood what Niles was going through. Why he’d become so distant once we were teens. She kept me hidden; I know that now. Tutors came to me. I was only allowed outdoors if Niles was inside. I was her fallback plan. She never thought she’d need me.” Connor lapses into a stunned silence and Hank realizes this must be the first time Connor’s said any of this out loud.

“I’m failing her,” Connor’s lip trembles before he slams the cold mask back into place. “Niles fled. He couldn’t do what he must. He couldn’t be king.” Hank can hear the uncertainty in Connor’s tone but he doesn’t challenge him. What choice did Connor have but to mold into the shape his mother demanded? Hank’s chest aches a little. This was too much all at once.

Still, Hank wasn’t one to sit by and watch abuse unfold without doing _something_.

“For what it’s worth,” Hank says gruffly and Connor’s eyes slide across the mirror to meet his once more, “compassion is a pretty noble trait to have.” Connor bristles and Hank doesn’t blame him. He has no idea how long Connor’s suffered, how long he’s tried to force his emotions down and away until he doesn’t have them anymore.

He holds up a hand to stay Connor’s wrath, “I know, I know. I’m just a simple peasant. I’ll go find something to clean.” Connor doesn’t stop his exit and Hank can feel his eyes on him until he shuts the door.

He tries to comply with Connor’s demands with less grousing after that display. He can’t be certain, but he’s fairly sure the queen is using Hank as a test. To see if Connor can control him with an iron fist as she seems to think a ruler must. He sees the relief that flickers across Connor’s face when Hank wordlessly obeys yet another ridiculous order to remove his slippers as he takes his last meal with the queen before she departs.

The queen nods approvingly, “You see, Connor? A firm hand always keeps them in their place.” Hank has to fight with his lips to avoid baring his teeth at the woman.

Time passes at a more leisurely pace with the queen gone. Connor’s mood lifts considerably. He laughs at something one of the guards mutters to him and Hank startles at the sound. He’s never seen Connor relaxed before much less heard him laugh. It was a pleasant sound and transformed his face into something youthful and handsome.

He’s kinder to Hank as well. As winter fades into spring and news arrives that Amanda is delayed in her travels, Hank thaws considerably toward the prince. Without Amanda haunting his shadow and demanding progress, Connor is remarkably less lazy. He doesn’t order Hank about like a personal servant. Instead, he sets him to tasks more suited to his talents. Hank makes new shoes for the horses and Connor watches in fascination.

“How do you make the metal do that?” He sits cross-legged, watching Hank work with his chin in one hand. His hair is longer and curling at the ends. Hank jerks his head in irritation as if the thought was an irritating fly. It didn’t matter to him how Connor kept his hair.

“A lot of practice,” he answers honestly.

He nearly falls off his stool when Connor asks, “Can I try?”

It is a hilariously dismal failure, which Hank expected. Every novice apprentice in blacksmithing made the same mistakes. It took time to improve their skills.

He bumps Connor lightly in the shoulder when he sees him frowning down at his misshapen horseshoe, “I know you may not think it, but that’s not half bad for a first attempt. Most people wind up with a big molten blob. Yours is at least the right shape.”

It was hideously uneven and no horse would ever wear it, but Connor beams at him all the same. His smile is too bright, too genuine. Hank can’t look at it for very long. He’s too handsome like this, happy and at ease.

“I want to show you something.” Connor rises and snatches at Hank’s hand as if worried Hank won’t follow him. It’s a ridiculous notion; Hank doesn’t have any choice. Still, something warm tickles in Hank’s throat at the gesture. That, and Connor takes much longer than necessary to slacken his fingers.

Hank recognizes the first few halls they’re treading before becoming hopelessly lost. They wind up outside a set of impossibly tall doors and Connor hesitates. Some of the excitement leaks out of him as he turns to face Hank, a hand still on the slender handle, “It may not seem like much to you. I don’t know if you like—”

He gives his head a little shake and starts anew, “This is where I go when I need to get away. Mother never comes here. It was father’s sanctuary.” Hank knew the mysterious circumstances the king died under and now he wonders if his wife had a hand in it.

Hank nods slowly. Whatever Connor was about to show him, it was near to his heart. Hank had never seen Connor show an interest in anything that wasn’t at the queen’s direct bidding. Curiosity unfurls in his guts like a cat stretching leisurely.

Connor pushes the door wide and it takes Hank several moments to adjust to the brightness of the room. Most of the castle had limited natural lighting, but this room’s exterior walls appear to be made almost entirely out of windows.

It’s a great deal warmer in this room as well and Hank notes a small fire crackling cheerfully off to one side. After that, his brain short circuits at the sheer volume of books he’s seeing. His little town had a bookshop, but it was nothing compared to this.

“Mother doesn’t approve much of reading, but she’s never been able to come up with a reason to stop me.” Connor’s fingers dance along the spines like they’re old friends.

Hank blinks hard and rubs his eyes. This isn’t happening. This couldn’t happen. Connor would go back to his beastly ways the minute his mother returned. It didn’t matter that Connor had a laugh softer than rose petals or a willingness to try new things despite certain disaster—even after his mother’s extensive mistreatment for perceived failures. It didn’t matter that Connor was standing on tiptoe to reach a book with a soft smile on his face that erased the pain Hank usually saw there.

It didn’t matter, any of it, but when Connor asks him to stay a little while, Hank says yes. It becomes a routine. Connor eats and Hank clears away his dishes under the ever-watchful eyes of the queen’s remaining guards. Connor retreats to the library and Hank follows. No guards bother standing post this deep in the castle and Connor relaxes without the weight of their stares on his back.

He reads to Hank while Hank oils armor and conditions leather sheaths. It’s simple work and makes Hank feel like he’s back home. Setting the final piece aside, Hank leans back onto a plush chaise lounge, closing his eyes. He listens to the sound of Connor’s voice more than the shape of the words. He gives the characters unique voices and Hank smiles faintly. He should open his eyes, but he feels warm and sleepy and more content than he has since he first set foot in this dour castle’s halls.

If the castle was a suffocating oyster, the library was the glistening pearl at its center. One perfect retreat from their mutual realities as prisoners of one sort or another. Connor’s voice becomes fainter and it takes Hank a moment to realize Connor’s drifting off ahead of him. He should nudge him or leave him to rest.

He stays where he is and Connor slowly droops against him, the book slipping from his hand. He’s warm and his weight is comfortable. When he awakes in the morning, Connor is gone and a cold pit weighs him down. He startles at a loud trolley rolling into the room. It’s laden with tea and cakes—a much finer breakfast than Hank’s had in the six months he’s been here.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Connor stares somewhere to the left of Hank’s face, not quite meeting his eyes. “I thought…I thought you might be hungry.”

Tension arcs up Connor’s spine like a fishing line about to snap. Hank gives him a faint smile and Connor’s shoulders relax in fractions, “Starving. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Hank is treated to a show of Connor trying to eat with his hands. It becomes painfully obvious Connor has been eating everything in dainty bites on the end of fork tines for the majority of his life. His eyes bug out of his head when Hank shoves an entire cake about the size of his palm into his mouth in one bite.

He takes a swig of milk and laughs deep within his belly when Connor asks him to do it again. He gets the hang of it eventually when Hank chuckles, “You’re going to have to let it touch your palm at some point, Connor.”

Something crackles between them and Hank realizes he called him by his name. He usually avoided calling him anything at all. He fell back on titles in front of Amanda, but that was more out of guilt than a desire to show deference. He didn’t want to give her any ammunition to use against Connor later.

“Sorry,” Hank mumbles, worried Connor will snap or revert back to the man he first met.

Connor hesitates on his answer, “It’s alright.” He fiddles with his cloak tie, something Hank’s come to recognize as a nervous habit. His eyes flick to Hank to his lap then back up again, “I like how it sounds when you say it. Mother always says it like even my name is disappointing.”

Hank can’t deny the throb of hurt he feels for Connor. He tries to be as gentle as he can, “We probably shouldn’t get into the habit of it, though.” Connor nods, but he looks like he’s been kicked all the same. Hank exhales a shaky breath and offers, “Maybe just in here, then?”

Connor smiles at him like Hank has given him a cherished gift and Hank’s heart stutters. He clears his throat, pushes it away.

His resolve to keep Connor at arm’s length cracks the day he burns his forearm at the castle forge.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he hisses as he resists the urge to grab the burn. He needs to clean his hands then clean and wrap the wound to keep infection at bay. He’s scrubbing his hands as the skin contorts painfully when Connor’s fingertips touch his elbow.

“Let me see it,” his voice is soft, concerned. He takes Hank by his uninjured hand, dragging him across the lawn. He drops it once they’re in sight of the guards, but Hank knows where Connor is leading him. He tells Hank to wait in the privacy of the library while he gathers some things. He returns with his arms loaded with bandages, salves, and more. He tries not to think about why Connor is so adept at treating injuries.

His touch is gentle, but a burn is a burn. Hank grimaces through most of it and Connor murmurs apologies. He knows this fragile peace can’t last, that they’re orbiting each other on borrowed time, but he’s glad he gets to see Connor like this. His true nature, his forgiving, gentle center like yolk hidden inside a soft-boiled egg. Hank doesn’t understand why the queen is trying so hard to destroy who Connor is. He doesn’t understand the queen at all when it comes down to it.

A bugle sounds, shattering the illusion. Connor’s spine goes rigid one vertebra at a time. He presses a small jar into Hank’s hands with a visible effort to control his fear, “Take this. Reapply it every morning. Mother will want…to see me.” Connor rises like a man about to be sentenced to the gallows.

Hank is close on his heels, “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Connor whirls, panicked. “It was stupid of me to take you last time. She’ll see…she’ll know. You _can’t_.”

Hank stares at him blankly, “She’ll know what?” Connor relaxes at this answer and he chews his lip in thought. “Connor, I’m not letting you go in there alone. Something is not right with her.”

Connor flaps his hands at him in a panic and Hank realizes he’s hit much closer to the truth than he meant to, “Don’t let _anyone_ hear you say that. She’s made people disappear for less.”

 _She’s actually insane_. It repeats in Hank’s mind in an endless loop, but he nods to Connor in reassurance.

“Don’t speak to her. Don’t look at me. Don’t react if she—to anything she might do or say.” Rage thrums through Hank’s veins. Connor’s trapped in an endless game of cat and mouse; he’s just trying to survive it. Hank had heard of rulers who’d gone mad, but he always imagined it would be something more obvious.

It’s far worse than Hank anticipated. He does as Connor asked. He cleans without looking at Connor. He moves as though detached to the rising voices around him. Amanda accuses him of laxness. Not a single execution since she’s been gone. Connor pleads with her—no one committed any crimes warranting death. Her harsh penalty of five years of imprisonment for Cole’s accidental mushroom theft is suddenly much less extreme in the face of her willingness to kill.

“ _Weak!_ ” She shrieks it and Hank flinches despite his resolve not to react. Several of the guards do as well. He sees her scepter rise in his peripheral and there isn’t a thing he can do to stop it. He’s too far away and the consequences would be lethal.

It strikes Connor squarely across the jaw. He goes down hard, rebounding off the dais stairs before landing in a sprawl. She points her scepter like a weapon at Hank, “You.”

He freezes and bows to her, not wishing to draw her ire upon himself. She gestures at Connor, “I’m sorry you had to witness such weakness. Remove this trash from my sight.” Hank bows again and she gives him a once over, “Where is your uniform?”

Hank doesn’t slow his stride as he stoops to collect Connor. He’s not unconscious, but he’s badly dazed. Hank attempts to be gentle while affecting the appearance of nonchalance. He bobs his head to her again, feeling ridiculous as he declares, “The prisoners haven’t finished with the wash yet. I’ll see to it straight away, your majesty.”

Her lips curl as she looks at Connor cradled in Hank’s arms, “Take him away, then.”

It isn’t until he has Connor back to his room that he relaxes his guard, “Oh my god.” He stares at Connor’s swelling face and mutters it again, “Oh my god, she’s insane. She doesn’t remember.” Hank’s heart leaps at the realization. If he catches her on an off day, he could slip into a guard’s uniform and walk straight out the front door.

Connor wretches and Hank reacts on instinct. He rolls Connor to his side so the worst of it hits the floor. He’d choke on it otherwise.

Connor. Oh, god. He can’t leave him here like this.

“Drawer,” Connor croaks at him between heaves. “Blue jar.” He passes out after that and Hank does his best to sort out what ointments will help Connor most. He isn’t sure why he’s vomiting unless the blow hit him closer to his head than he thought. He hadn’t been able to watch it straight on and couldn’t be sure.

If he’d realized how exhausted he was, Hank would never have sat down. The pain from his own injury and the stress of trying to find a solution that didn’t wind up with Connor beaten to death by his deranged mother tax him to the bone. He doesn’t bother wondering why Connor doesn’t strike back. The queen’s guard would put him down before he could even raise a hand in retaliation.

He tries to shout a warning to Connor when something clamps over his mouth, but it’s lost into the gag. By the times his eyes adjust to the dark, he can see a tall, thin figure looming over Connor. His mind roars in a rage he’s never felt before. Like hell is he going to be murdered in the dark by assassins when escape is so close.

The men had drastically underestimated his strength. Years of hammering metal into place, forging heavy weaponry and armor, had stacked muscle on him even if his belly had gained a layer of padding with age.

He’s on the verge of snapping one of the intruders in half when Connor calls to him wearily, “Hank, put him down.” Hank hesitates as Connor drags the back of his hand across his mouth, “Niles has come home.”

Squinting into the dark, Hank recognizes the man from the portrait. He still isn’t certain that he feels like putting him down, “Do you have any idea what the queen has been doing to him?” Niles lets out a soft gasp of pain as Hank’s fingers flex against him.

“Why do you think I came back?” He spits it out, writhing and trying to escape Hank’s iron grip. He releases him and Niles staggers into his compatriot. The man helps right him and Hank can make out a gash across his nose in the dim candlelight.

Niles explains in quick, terse sentences where he’d gone and what he’d been up to.

“Mother assumes I left for love,” the man he’d come with glances at him once, but says nothing. “It’s partially true, but my primary goal was to gather _allies_.” Most of the details escape him, but Hank gathers Niles had amassed a significant force to challenge his mother.

“We call ourselves Jericho,” Niles says quietly to Connor and it earns him a small smile.

“Like father’s ship.” Niles gives Connor a curt nod before addressing Hank.

“You need to get him out of here. There’s going to be a coup. It’s going to hit hard and fast and he can’t be here.” Hank stares at him a little dumbfounded. Niles taps his foot impatiently. Connor looks terrified.

When no one springs forward with an explanation, Niles sighs in irritation, “No one knows he _exists_.”

Hank snorts, “Like hell they don’t. He’s been sitting in at court for months.” Niles stares at him, waiting for the pieces to fall into place. Niles smiles grimly the moment Hank’s eyes alight with understanding, “She never told anyone. Everyone thinks he’s been you this whole time.”

“Correct. She never speaks our names in front of the public; only the guards and staff know the truth. She refers to us by our titles. It was an easy enough maneuver to pull.” Hank’s head aches to bursting. There’s too much information to process, but Niles keeps talking, “The court is already divided. I can’t afford the appearance of a possible challenger.”

Hank looks from Connor to Niles, “You can’t be serious.”

“He can’t stay,” Niles says it simply and so detached Hank can’t help but wonder how much of Amanda’s cruel teachings had taken root in him. His mouth goes a little soft as he addresses Connor, “You’ll have funds. I’m not leaving you destitute.”

To Hank’s surprise, Connor nods before mumbling, “I want the library.”

“Done,” Niles agrees. He turns to Hank, “There’re a horse and buggy outside. It’ll be rough on him, but you need to go fast. Get him away from here. It’s the only way I can protect him from her.”

As Hank’s brain slowly catches up to the deluge of information coming his way, the more the situation makes sense. Connor never wanted to rule. He hadn’t been groomed for it until Niles’ abrupt departure. Amanda would likely try to name Connor her heir, and pit him as her puppet against his brother. Without resources, Connor wouldn’t have a choice.

“I thought you were dead,” Connor says quietly and emotions registers on Niles’ face for the first time all evening. “Mother slashed your portrait when you left.”

He drops to his knees by Connor’s bed, “I’m sorry I left you here with her. I’m sorry it has to be like this. It wouldn’t have worked otherwise. She would have hunted us down before we could gather a feasible force.”

Anger simmers in Hank’s chest that Niles could do that to his brother, but he knows Amanda had longer to crush his feelings. The fact that Niles could still feel anything at all struck him as somewhat miraculous.

When Niles rises to take his leave, he murmurs to Hank, “I can give you ten minutes, but you need to move now.” Then he’s gone as abruptly as he arrived.

Connor doesn’t move and he folds his arms in a stubborn cross over his chest, “I’m not going with you.”

“The hell you aren’t,” Hank all but growls and the bratty defiance he knows well warps Connor’s features.

“Where am I supposed to go after?” The argument is a thin one. Niles had already said Connor wouldn’t want for money. Something nags at Hank, trying to pull the curtain from the truth.

“You can stay with me until we can figure things out,” he’s as surprised at himself as Connor appears to be by the offer.

Connor pulls in his defenses tighter to his chest, “Right. Like you’d want me around. Spoiled, vain, cruel Connor.” His voice cracks and realization slams into Hank with the force of a hammer.

“You aren’t those things,” he says quietly. The spoiled bit is true, but now wasn’t the time to split hairs.

Connor’s wrath ripples out from him in waves, but Hank knows what he’s trying to hide. He’s _afraid_.

“How would you know what I am? She’s had _years_ alone with me. You had a handful of months and you think you’re an expert?” He curls in on himself and Hank tries to track how much time they have left before all hell breaks loose.

“She tried to make you into a monster,” Hank says quietly and Connor exhales a wounded sound. “She tried to make you like her. Cold, cruel, and ruthless.” He holds up his bandaged arm, “Thing is, I see you. She sees it, too. It’s what makes her so mad.”

He’d taken cautious steps toward Connor like one would toward a wounded animal as he spoke. Connor leaps to his feet and Hank can see the naked terror now, “I’m _nothing_.”

The hurt in Connor’s voice, his truth laid bare, are too much. Hank doesn’t have the words so he pulls him into a crushing hug instead. Connor flails like hornets swarming a nest. He pushes and shoves, but Hank curls tighter around him until Connor loses his fight. His fingers lock into Hank’s simple shirt and he can feel hot puffs of breath through the thin material.

Connor raises his anguished face. He isn’t crying, but his eyes blur as if he wants to, “Why would you possibly want me to go with you?” His voice is tight and Hank knows Connor is unbearably fragile in this moment.

“Because you’re _good_ , Connor. You’re kind when no one’s watching. You’re curious and smart and everything your mother could never be.” Connor cracks before Hank can get to _kind_ , but he keeps talking. Wet tears hit his shirt and Hank wishes desperately he had figured out what was happening sooner, that he could find a way to take Connor’s pain and release it into the night sky.

Taking him away from this place would be a good start.

“I treated you so badly,” Connor protests but he doesn’t pull away.

Hank’s arms tighten a fraction more, “That wasn’t you. That was _her_.” Connor shudders and Hank’s subconscious prickles at him. They’re running out of time.

“The things I did. They were…abhorrent. How can you possibly forgive me? You should hate me.” Connor’s eyes are on him again, clearer now.

Hank knows there’s some logic to it. He shouldn’t like Connor. Connor had treated him terribly, but Hank’s not an idiot. Connor was never a skilled actor when it came to being cruel. Discovering the queen’s perfidy made a lot of things make much more sense. He could try to explain it to Connor. He could give details and snapshots of moments where he showed Hank his true self. He could recount the moment he realized he wanted to spend time in Connor’s company.

It’s much easier to tilt his face and press a soft kiss to his lips. Connor trembles against him, but his own arms snake up to cling to Hank’s back. He’s warm and he smells like whatever salve Hank had smeared over his jaw. There’s salt on his tongue, but Hank is certain Connor has the sweetest lips he’s ever kissed.

There would be time later to discuss it all. There would be endless months upon months for Connor to heal and to trust again. In the interim, Hank would be patient. He’d teach Connor how to use the forge and bandage burned fingers in the evening. He would hold him as he slept and shook through nightmares. He’d be there to comfort him when he woke up scared but not alone.

The coup shook the town in the early days, but their slower way of life had a way of insulating them and returning to normal faster than most. True to his word, Niles funnels money and books upon books to Hank’s address. They have to buy a new house, their house, to fit them all. Cole opens the town’s first legitimate library, looking to branch out from the family trade.

Hank could tell when Connor was battling his demons. His kisses would be frantic, his hands groping wherever they could reach. He always wanted the same thing every time, “Say it again, please. Tell me.”

Hank never saw a reason to deny him. He’d kiss him gently, slow Connor’s panicked mind, before murmuring against his ear, “You’re good, Connor. You’re kind. And I love you.” In the end, Hank’s love would prove to be the only salve Connor would ever need again. Hank gives it to him in droves.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


End file.
